


Send Me the Thorns

by Xela



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reason Arthur wears high collared shirts is because there's a black leather collar underneath that shows he belongs to Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Send Me the Thorns

“It’s a thousand degrees in here, how have you not even loosened your tie?” Ariadne demands.  Arthur slants a cool look at her and continues to meticulously arrange his papers on the white board.  His only concession to the oppressive heat--and really, they are never staying in an un-air conditioned warehouse in the middle of summer ever again--is his lack of coat.  There aren’t even sweat marks under his arm pits which is impossible and unfair.

“Really, darling,” Eames drawls from beside her, sprawled loose across the lawn chair.  Eames was made to sweat, the sheen of perspiration inviting the nearest person to run their tongue over his skin.  “Why don’t you...unclench.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames and Ariadne feels a familiar bubble of nervousness rise in her; those looks between them never bode well, and innocent bystanders have been caught in the crossfire.  Arthur reaches down beside him and touches a small black box on the table.

Eames swears and leaps out of his chair.

“Did I mention we were testing the merits of an electric shock kick today?” Arthur asks blandly.

***

Arthur rolls up his shirt sleeves and forgoes a tie the next day, but remains buttoned up.  One lock of hair rebelliously wilts over his forehead in the heat.  He can feel Ariadne’s eyes boring into the back of his head.  She’s down to a tank top, shorts, and flip flops.

(“Flip flops!” she had moaned.  “I’m wearing flip-flops.  In France.  Do you know how stereotypical that is? It’s one step away from sneakers!  Quelle horreur.”)

“You’re even making me hot,” Yusuf says to Arthur’s back.  As far as Arthur can tell, he’s the only one who’s actually doing any work at the moment.  (Cobb had disappeared into his office with what was probably a fan hidden in his bag.)

“We’re all working very hard at staying cool,” Eames notes.  He’s taken off his shirt and is sitting in a graceless sprawl that invites the eye to look right at his crotch.  “The very sight of you manages to undo all our best efforts.”

Arthur bides his time until Ariadne escapes to the roof where there might be a breeze.  He saunters over to Eames’ chair on the pretext of checking the PASIV connections.  Head bent over the silver case, he very precisely informs Eames under what conditions he will condone the ruin of his ties with no detail left out.

Arthur’s fairly sure Eames won’t be feeling cool for a long while yet.

***

Arthur ignores Dom’s stares for as long as he can before tossing the whiteboard marker down and turning around, arms folded across his chest.

“Stop staring at me.”  Dom frowns and leans forward, eyes intent and studying Arthur.  Like he’s a mark.  Like Dom’s going to try Extracting something from him.  Arthur stands up straighter.  “Dom.”

“You know you can tell me anything, Arthur.”  Arthur blinks because _what?_  Dom’s face softens into the same one he uses when he kisses James’ boo boos or explains to Phillipa that the animals on TV aren’t really eating each other.

“Look, when my mind was literally turning against itself, you kept me together.  And I would do the same for you.  In a heartbeat.  If you needed it.  Whatever you need.  No matter what it is.  Or who...who might be responsible.”

Arthur looks at Dom with a growing sense of horror.

“Yes, darling, do tell us if you’ve been horribly abused.”  They both start, neither of them aware of Eames’ approach.  Eames is studying Arthur intently, no hint of his usual smirk in place.  Dom looks like he’s seconds away from shooting Eames.   Oh, God.

Arthur makes a strangled sound and turns back to his whiteboard.  

 _The last ten minutes never happened,_ he repeats in his mind.   _This is not happening, never happened, will never happen._  

He finds pamphlets on the emotional impact of scars and the signs that your lover is abusive in his messenger bag.  He sets off his apartment’s fire alarm burning them.  He wears his best three-piece suit to work the next day and refuses to take off the jacket and hopes Dom feels like an asshole.

***

France is not supposed to be this hot.  Arthur wipes his brow with a mangled handkerchief--his fourth of the day.  He’s just recently gone back to rolled-up sleeves.  The wounded looks Dom shoots him whenever he ventures out of his office are--just barely--worth it.  (Ariadne had taken one look at him, spun around on her heel, and left in a huff.)

Since Ariadne’s gone, Dom’s avoiding him, Yusuf has taken to his drugs for relief and Eames is being unnaturally quiet, Arthur gets a lot of work done.  He slips into his rhythm where nothing exists but the intersection of data.  It’s only when he reaches a detente that he realizes his back hurts and his shirt is absolutely soaked (this is what cheap shirts are for and yes, he does own a few of those, thank you very much).

When Arthur turns to the table, he finds his favorite meal on the table: a curry chicken baguette, Perrier and pain au chocolate from the patisserie down the street.  He falls on it, ravenous, while Eames watches.

“Okay,” Arthur says once he’s fed.  “What did you do.”

“Pardon?” Eames asks, pressing his hand to his chest as if wounded.  Arthur snorts inelegantly.

“You haven’t tried to distract me.  You brought me lunch.  You haven’t been obnoxious in days.  The last time you were this well behaved it was my birthday.  So I repeat: what did you do?”

Eames is silent for so long Arthur actually starts to worry.  

“You know if it’s uncomfortable,” Eames says, reaching towards Arthur’s collar, “I could always take it--”  Arthur jerks away from Eames’ touch and glares, a fierce protectiveness welling up within him.

“Don’t you dare.”  For a moment, it looks like Eames might fight him on this and if he does he will lose because Arthur has _dreamed_ about this for years and Eames doesn’t get to take it back.

“Right,” Eames gives in with a sigh.  A look Arthur has never seen before flashes over his face and is gone.  But Arthur, whose job it is to see and remember everything, catches it.  He narrows his eyes and watches Eames shuffle off to annoy Yusuf, a few things clicking into place.  Well, that just won’t do.

***

Arthur waltzes in wearing a pair of well worn, incredibly soft jeans, a threadbare gray t-shirt, flip-flops, and a black leather collar around his neck.  It fits so snugly, so perfectly, that no one even thinks _necklace._  And attached to the front of it is Eames name, laser cut in platinum, in Eames’ own handwriting.

Arthur drops a copy of _Screw the Roses, Send me the Thorns_ in front of Dom as retribution for the pamphlets.  Every eye is on him as he hauls Eames up by the lapels of his mauve paisley shirt and kisses him.  

“Enjoy this,” Arthur breathes against Eames’ lips, “because I’m never going out in public like this ever again.”

“Even if I make it an order, pet?”

“Even then, Mr. Eames.”

Eames privately agrees; Arthur looks positively indecent in those clothes, and no one gets to see him that way but Eames because Arthur is his.  Says so right on the collar.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Send Me the Thorns [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468869) by [MsBrightsideSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBrightsideSH/pseuds/MsBrightsideSH)




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